Can't Be My Superman
My blanket smells like laundry detergent, like my childhood, I guess. It smells like safety, and that’s why I have it wrapped around me right now. Because, somehow, I want with all my heart to believe that holding this piece of cloth around me will protect me from everything that I know is going to happen.
You listened to me. You sat there, on my pale blue comforter, while I screamed and cried. Handing me that teddy bear, thinking it would bring me comfort. You didn’t even yell at me when I threw it across the room, when it bounced off the wall and into the trash can. I didn’t mean that to happen.
I don’t know why I gave you my soul, why I gave you all those feelings. And more than that, I don’t know why you put up with it. Why, why did you sit there listening, when you could have walked out at any moment?
No, you can’t help me. You can’t take away my pain. But you didn’t tell me it was a mental case story, or it was a depression story. No, you knew it was my story, and I’m sorry that I ever doubted you.